My California King
by rosebelikov26
Summary: Twenty years after a nasty divorce, Kurt and Blaine accidentally bump into each other. Kurt's still pissed at Blaine, Blaine's still confused at Kurt... Maybe they were never supposed to be together in the end anyway. AU, future!fic, usual angst/fluff. HIATUS
1. 2039

The sounds of a clattering bowl and hushed swear reach Kurt's ears. Not even looking up from his phone, he clears his throat.

"Sorry Dad!"

Kurt sighs and straightens up, stretching his back out with a few loud pops. He watches his daughter hurriedly clean up the spilled fruit, careful to avoid ruining both her dress and freshly painted nails.

"You're feeling like Elizabeth today, aren't you?"

Elizabeth just smiles in response. She reaches down the counter to grab the wet rag and throws it on the floor. Pulling her mug closer to her, she leans against the island across from Kurt. "No make-up, so not entirely."

"Liam will be surprised," Kurt says. "The last time you wore a dress was the first day of ninth grade."

She takes a sip of her morning tea, a knowing look in her eyes. The pair of them have a connection that nobody else can put their finger on. It's something about their relationship as father and daughter that they never take for granted.

"Morning, Kurt," a third voice says and Elizabeth looks up to see her father's latest boyfriend come strolling into the kitchen.

Kurt clears his throat and gives the other man a pointed look.

"And Elizabeth," he amends, kissing Kurt on the top of his head.

It's no secret in the Hummel residence that Jack, Kurt's latest boyfriend, doesn't particularly like Kurt's baggage … which includes Elizabeth. Still, he had let Jack move in and it makes Elizabeth feel obliged to at least be cordial towards the other man.

"Good morning to you, too, Jack. I hope you had a wonderfully pleasant sleep," Elizabeth replies with a tight smile and glare at the pair of them.

Jack frowns. "Oh, I'm sorry, did Kurt's screams keep you up last night? Because I'm pretty sure that was payback for last Saturday night."

She huffs a sigh. "I'm still a virgin, thank you very much. I don't get inappropriate when I know other people are trying to sleep on the other side of the very thin wall."

"Buy a pair of earplugs."

"Buy a muffler."

Kurt slams his hand down with a loud smack. "Would the two of you quit it? I'm not in the mood. Act your age, not your IQ. Please," he adds, taking a long sip of coffee.

Elizabeth finishes her tea and sets the mug in the sink by the bowl she had dropped earlier.

He watches her carefully. Her broad shoulders are tightened with stress, her hands nervously twisting the fabric of her paisley print frock.

"You'll be late," Kurt softly says, ignoring Jack right behind him. His daughter's already been upset once today. She doesn't need it again. She's emotionally fragile, just like Kurt had been during his high school years. As much as he had tried to avoid it, he knew some of what she was going through having been raised by only one parent.

She turns around and he can see the anger in her eyes. Jack would definitely be hearing about it later. He jerks his head towards the elevator.

He's suddenly very thankful penthouses were designed to be big and spacious.

"I'll talk to him, okay?" he starts off as she hikes her backpack up onto her shoulders.

"It's not just that," she replies, looking down at her brown flats. The arms of her jean jacket have risen up a little; the charm bracelet her mother gave her for her sixteenth birthday glints in the light from the chandelier right above their heads.

"I'll add it to the conversation list," he promises. He pulls her into a tight hug, kissing her hard on the forehead.

She bites her lip, not wanting to say the nine words dancing on the tip of her tongue. It'll just make Kurt upset. "I have to go." She pulls out of Kurt's arm with a smile. "Time to go ring in senior year!"

When the elevator doors ding shut, Kurt lets the frown work itself onto his face. He's still wearing it when he returns to the kitchen.

Jack's leaning against the kitchen island with a bowl of cereal in his hands and Kurt finds himself watching him not for the first time since they got together seven months ago.

It's hard to not notice all the imperfections. His hair isn't curly or dark enough, his eyes the wrong shade of hazel. Kurt's the short one and has been silently relegated to the permanent position of the little spoon.

He might be forty-five, but things like who got to be the big spoon are still important to him. His sex life will be ending soon (a scary, morbid thought) and he doesn't know of any elderly couple that is able to cuddle in bed on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

"Could you at least pretend to like her?" Kurt wearily asks.

Jack jumps slightly, setting his bowl down on the counter next to the sink.

"So, you know, I'm ignorant to the fact that the two most important people in my life don't get along," he continues, resuming his seat.

"I'm sorry," Jack mumbles.

"Why do you not like her?" Kurt asks, slightly tilting his head. He's never gotten a straight answer out of Jack about this and it worries him. While Jack holds a high candle for being Kurt's boyfriend, his daughter trumps anyone currently in his life and the thought of anyone not getting along with her is hard to shake.

Jack opens his mouth to explain when Kurt's phone rings. He holds up a finger and takes the call.

It's his panicked assistant. The fabric for Rachel's dress hasn't come in yet and they needed to start making it today if they were going to get it done in time for the proper fittings and tailoring and have it ready for the benefit she was hosting in a few months.

"I'll be there in ten," he says before ending the call. He gives Jack a pointed look. "We're not done with this conversation."

Jack nods but Kurt doesn't see it as he takes off for the elevator.

—

"Thanks for helping me, San."

Blaine collapses on the newly assembled couch, face-planting into one of the many dark purple pillows that litter it.

_He would call this ugly and possibly even tacky._

"My high school best friend moves back to New York without a single person to help him move all his shit. I felt like I had to," Santana replies. She sits on the edge of the coffee table and rubs Blaine's back a little bit.

_His dad used to do that._

"But it took all weekend," Blaine counters.

She shrugs. "I don't care. The wifey's out of town for Nat's dance competition and she took Star with her. I would've ended up doing more laundry and house-cleaning than allowed in a single week. This was more productive."

"Why didn't I keep in touch with any of you?" Blaine wonders aloud, shifting to face his old friend. "It just seems so … unlike me."

Santana presses her lips together. She opens her mouth a few times but nothing comes out.

_Him._

"I think New York held some very bad memories for you," she finally settles on. "I would've cut off all ties with anyone if I had been you."

"Yeah, but you're a bitch," Blaine teased.

She laughs. "Parenting has calmed me down. I found a grey hair the other day, Blaine. That shit's not supposed to happen for at least another fifteen years!"

_He would be complaining about that._

"It's okay." Blaine sits and nudges her knee with his foot. "I'm in the middle of my mid-life crisis. A-list musicians don't suddenly take a year sabbatical to focus on their personal life and move across the country."

"What personal life?"

They dissolve into laughter.

It's true, though. In terms of boyfriends and significant others and a love life, Blaine Anderson has been pretty vague in interviews about it. Why? Because it doesn't exist. There were a few rebound guys but on his thirtieth birthday, he pulled a Brian Kinney and tried to convince himself that even though his was thirty, some guy out there must still want him.

The ego-boosting lasted for a few years until he realized his career was falling by the wayside and if he died tomorrow, he'd be sorely disappointed in himself for being more focused on fucking than singing.

Blaine has to laugh at himself about it; otherwise, he'd become depressed that he feels like he wasted twenty years of his life, pining over a man that woke up one morning and decided he didn't love Blaine anymore.

That's what it felt like to him.

Santana's phone beeps at her. "Britt says hi, by the way, as do the girls."

"I wanna write back to them myself," Blaine playfully whines, reaching for Santana's phone. He leans too far and falls partially into her lap, his knees hitting the hardwood floor. She leans too far back and they topple over each other into a giggling pile on the floor.

"It's not like a day has passed," Santana murmurs as Blaine taps out his reply to Brittany. Only now does he realize just how much he's missed everyone from high school. He still has his college friends, but a lot of the New Directions crew, who all stayed close with each other, stopped talking to him after the divorce.

The few who did (Santana, Tina, Mike, and Sam) were blatantly ignored after Blaine moved out to Los Angeles to finally pursue his music career. Stuck in the middle between over the hill and half a century, Blaine sorely regrets ignoring them. The four were willing to put up with getting ostracized by him just to keep their friendships with him still going strong.

He feels like an idiot who continues to take everything in his life for granted.

"There you go," Blaine says, handing the phone back to Santana. He untangles himself and stands up with the help of the couch. A bad car accident ten years ago left his spine slightly misaligned — nothing big enough for the doctors to correct but just enough to annoy him.

It made some sex difficult.

"You keep disappearing on me," Santana notes as she takes his offered hand. "Where are you going in that head of yours?"

"Places that hurt," Blaine says. He glances at his now fully stocked kitchen. "Lunch?"

Santana shakes her head as she follows him. "He's got a boyfriend and a kid and a stable, thriving career. He doesn't need you fucking anything up."

Blaine slams the bread down on the counter, pain and anger in his eyes. "Don't you think I know that? Every event I'm invited to, he's the only designer not on the list of people who want to create yet another look-a-like-every-other-penguin suit for me. Bologna or turkey?"

"Whichever." Santana's got her lips pressed together again and she's giving him that look that reminds him so much of the same look a pair of glasz eyes used to hold.

"Bologna it is," Blaine mutters, opening the fridge with a bit more force than was necessary.

He works in silence for a little while, Santana catching and sending texts to Brittany who was driving up from Philadelphia.

When Blaine speaks again, it's soft and he slides a plate across the breakfast bar towards Santana. "I'm not here to win him back. My turn is over. I had it and it blew up in my face and while I regret not working harder at making things right, part of me knew it was over."

They fall silent again, eating in their own thoughts. When she finishes, Santana hops off the stool and stretches her arms above her head. Blaine takes it as her cue to leave, her work with helping him move all done. He walks her over to the door.

She reaches over and pulls up the leather cord around his neck from the back. On it is a simple gold and silver ring. If she turns it to the right angle, she knows she'll find Forever etched on the inside. "You have a lot of regrets, don't you?" she muses.

"Go home, Santana," he chokes out, his hand flying around the ring and shoving it back down his shirt.

So she does.

—

There's a café on Waverly that serves the best medium drip coffee Kurt can find in Manhattan. Every day at three, he takes a half hour break from his office work whether it be payroll or designing a piece, walks several blocks down to the Wave Café, orders his usual medium drip, puts a packet of sugar in it if he's feeling moody, and sits by the window, enjoying the world he sees through the window.

It's calming, familiar, a routine he fell into twenty years ago.

The anniversary is coming up, he suddenly realizes that particular Monday afternoon. Or rather, what he calls the Deathiversary.

Twenty years since he signed the final document, the signature that would make it permanent.

That was the only day he let himself really remember. Elizabeth knows to make herself scarce and whichever boyfriend he's with suddenly finds himself ignored for a whole twenty-four hours.

He makes a mental note to tell Jack to go book a hotel room for that night.

It's a day of despair, really, for Kurt. He bottles up all of his hatred and pain and love and misery for that man just to let it out for one whole day.

The old Dalton sweatshirt that miraculously still smells like him comes out of the box in the back of the closet that has his name written all over it and he wears it around the whole day.

He drinks nothing but drip coffee all day and makes himself cookies, though they're not shaped like Cupid.

_Pretty in Pink_ constantly plays in the background and he finds himself mouthing along each time he hears Molly Ringwald on the television ask _What about prom, Blane?_

He falls asleep in the sweatshirt, surrounded by a pile of used tissues that litter the bed and listening to a playlist he saves for that day. It includes _Blackbird_and _Candles_ and _Dancing Queen_.

He's an idiot and so, so stupid for giving that up. He knows it and he tries not to think about it except on the Deathiversary.

The bell above the café door rings and it snaps Kurt out of his thoughts. He looks up, mostly out of habit, and his breath catches in his throat.

Standing there, looking older but not different at all, is the man he was just thinking about.

His cheeks flame bright red and suddenly he feels like a teenager again, flipping between hoping his crush does and doesn't see him. The drink in his hand falls to the table; the clang, though barely heard by his neighbor, rings loudly in Kurt's ears.

He keeps his eyes trained on the other man, watching him order, pay, get his coffee, and then suddenly stop, looking around.

Kurt looks around as well and realizes that literally the only open chair is the one in front of him. Damn popular Manhattan cafés.

He ducks his head before he thinks he's spotted, becoming more interested in a napkin dispenser than he ever has in his entire life.

"I don't mean to be rude," a voice above Kurt starts and it takes all of his willpower not to run away, "Or intrusive or anything of that nature, but do you mind if I sit here?"

Kurt knows there's nothing he can do to avoid this anymore. Slowly, he lifts his head up to meet Blaine's curious gaze.

"Kurt?" Blaine whispers. Kurt can see the onslaught of emotions run across Blaine's face (and wow has he become more unguarded since he moved to California) and his heart breaks just a little bit more.

"I can go—"

"Stop," he whispers, grabbing Kurt's wrist as he tries to move past him.

And he does. Blaine's physical touch has always had that effect on him.

"I'm sorry, it's just…."

"Shocking?" Kurt supplies, sitting back down.

Blaine tentatively takes the chair opposite Kurt with a nod.

"Manhattan is a big place," Kurt murmurs.

There's an awkward beat before he picks the conversation back up.

"How've you been?"

"Good. LA's much warmer than here. You?"

"Fine."

The stiff, truth-hiding game they're playing isn't them and Kurt can feel himself aching for things to be comfortable between them again, as impossible as it may be.

Kurt checks his watch and realizes that he's five minutes late for work. Maybe that awkward beat was longer than he thought.

"If you need to go—"

"I do, actually." Kurt's smile is apologetic. "We can catch up later if you want…?"

"Yeah," Blaine breathes and it's obvious to an outsider that both are excited and relieved and trying not to show it. "Um, do you need my number?"

Silently, they exchange phones. Neither is surprised (more elated, in fact) to find they were never deleted and quietly keep that information to themselves as they update their numbers and slide them across the table to each other.

"It was… It was good seeing you," Kurt says more to himself.

"Yeah," Blaine agrees.

Kurt stands, fingers wrapped firmly around his coffee cup. "I'll call you or something."

"Okay." Another awkward beat. "See you later, I guess."

He nods. "Yeah, see you."

When he walks past, he smiles to himself when he catches a whiff of a grande nonfat mocha coming from Blaine's general direction.


	2. Elizabeth

The first time it happens, Kurt doesn't even realize he's been affected this much.

He's standing in Tim Hortons, waiting for his coffee-to-go because it's stronger and tastes a lot like Canada, a country he's always fancied moving to but never actually did, when he sees it.

A slightly messy head of black curls right above his line of sight.

He does a double take before he realizes it's a stranger and not Blaine and after a third look, it couldn't possibly be Blaine because the stranger is female.

Shaking his head, he steps up to get his coffee, and bolts out of the store before he can dwell on the thought.

—

Blaine's not sure why he's so hung up over the completely accidental run-in with Kurt the other day.

It's been a week and he keeps seeing him everywhere he turns.

The first time is in a bookstore his agent told him about and he's very much convinced it's Kurt until the person turns and asks where the romance section is and whoa, Kurt's voice was never that deep. Not even during sex.

He ignores the pang in his gut and grabs the first book he can touch to distract himself from forbidden thoughts.

—

It happens again when Kurt's walking down the street.

This time is a bit different, but it still brings back a lot of memories.

Between the upcoming Deathiversary and subsequent show, Kurt's stressed beyond belief. Sometimes, walking in Central Park helps.

This particular Tuesday, fifteen days after their encounter, does the trick until he's circling back. He's so close to his office and a clear head, he nearly cries.

Walking the opposite way is a teenage couple. The brunet boy has his arm wrapped tight around the other boy's waist, digging his face into the black curls that are at a perfect height for making such a gesture.

Kurt tries to tell himself that the envy he feels is from having grown up in Ohio instead of New York City.

—

"You just spilled coffee all over my new Armani!"

"That name still exists?"

"What do you mean?"

"Armani's so … last decade. k.a.d. is where it's at."

"I heard he's engaged. Everyone knows that's the end of your career."

"So is having a kid and he's got a teenager."

"She's almost eighteen. I remember the spread that one magazine did when she was born."

"I can't believe he's still famous."

"Chanel lasted forever and will continue to do so."

The tears come faster than Blaine expects and he gets off the train at the next stop even though he's blocks and blocks from his destination.

Even though he supposedly doesn't care, he knows k.a.d. is Kurt's brand.

He doesn't know what the initials stand for.

—

Markets are the absolute worst. Everywhere he turns, he sees a pair of bottomless hazel eyes or a mop of curly black hair or a guarded, bright smile or a short man.

They're everywhere, doppelgangers of the real thing, sent by Heaven to torture him ruthlessly.

He feels the panic settle in and he's baffled by it and he knows he's doing a piss-poor job of hiding his internal turmoil because Elizabeth's looking at him funny and asking him for the umpteenth time whether they should buy the red or white onions.

They both hate onions.

—

Brittany and Santana have invited him over on a Friday night towards the end of September. Astrid and Natalia are out at some party or something and the three haven't properly caught up in forever.

A couple glasses of good wine later has the trio hopping on the ancient desktop the Lopez clan has neglected to get rid of already to look at old photos.

Blaine ends up learning a lot about their sophomore year and later can barely contain the silly giggles of New Directions in their various Rocky Horror costumes.

Nobody says anything when he falls silent after Brittany pulls up videos of Cheerios routines from sophomore year.

—

He tries not to cry the morning of the Deathiversary when he wakes up and thinks he's pressed up against Blaine.

But then he turns and the hair's not curly enough and the eyes the wrong shade of hazel and the smile not right and he finally does break down in tears because he realizes he doesn't feel guilty for thinking that.

He's been thinking that for twenty years now.

—

It's almost Halloween by the time things start becoming strained between Kurt and Jack. Even Elizabeth has picked up on it and she makes sure Kurt is aware of this.

He's angrily tapping his fingers against the steering wheel of his car as Elizabeth calmly and quietly explains how she's noticed that the two men don't look at each other a lot and their conversations are quite terse if she does say so herself and Kurt finds himself chewing over why the hell traffic on Amsterdam Avenue had to be so bad today.

"Dad? Are you even listening to me? I mean, I don't particularly care for Jack, nor he for me, but he's been around for almost nine months so he's obviously better at making you feel alright than all the others and I care about your happiness and shit, now I'm rambling."

"Language."

Elizabeth throws her hands up in annoyance. They smack loudly against her thighs just as her cell phone buzzes and she dives to the backpack at her feet to answer it.

Ever since the car accident in Lima this past summer, Kurt drives Elizabeth around to the various places she needs to be if she can't get a ride from a friend. Still recovering from the emergency spine correctional surgery in August, it's forced her to tone it down with her school's show choir and theatre departments. Kurt only allowed her to go back to work at the same café he frequents (and ran into Blaine at, but it's not appropriate to think about that right now) the previous week.

Walking anything more than down the block is a bit of a pain and there's only a small set of people Elizabeth feels comfortable driving with, so driving on her own or taking the subway is completely out of the question.

"Are you pissed that Jack forgot about me again? It's the third time this week, you know."

"Yes, Elizabeth, I'm aware," Kurt snaps, feet slamming against the brake even though he was taught in Driver's Ed to never do just that.

"Jesus," she breathes after her body snaps forward and she throws her free arm out against the dashboard to brace herself.

"What do you even see in him?" Elizabeth asks not for the first time and Kurt sighs because they both know why but they'll never actually say it aloud.

"Like you said. He's good at making me feel like I'm a step or two above being eternally depressed."

"He didn't even know who Alexander McQueen or Barbra Streisand were. That's a travesty according to your standards. No wonder he hasn't met any of your friends yet."

"I'm aware."

"He's not even that cute."

"That's your opinion."

"He's a tool, Dad."

"Elizabeth."

"I'm serious. He's one of those types that would run because the other has a kid but sticks around anyway because the sex is mediocre."

"You're walking on thin ice right now."

"Oh, right. I'm sorry. According to Noah Puckerman, he's only sticking around because you're above mediocre in bed, even though I don't know how he knows that."

"Phone, one week."

She hands it over with a sniff. "I hope my point was made."

"Do you have enough tampons for next week?"

"I haven't had my period in three years when you made me go on birth control as my congrats-you're-starting-high-school present."

"Why are you being such a bitch?"

The question hangs between them, a loud, attention-seeking scratch on their relationship.

"I'm sorry," Kurt murmurs after a while, trying to find a parking spot on their side of the street. He succeeds faster than he thought he would and deftly parallel parks without much effort "That was uncalled for and completely inappropriate of me. I shouldn't be asking those questions."

Elizabeth shakes her head. She knows Kurt has a show in a week and really, she shouldn't be pressing buttons like that.

"Don't worry, Dad. It's okay. Apology accepted." She opens the door. "But for the record, I don't like him. He makes me feel unwelcome in my own home, something I know you've been trying to avoid. I thought you always said that my happiness went above yours or maybe that's my conceited, bitchy teenage side whispering in my ear.

She slams the door at the same moment Kurt's forehead meets his steering wheel.

—

"And so then Josh was all pissy because Jessica told him that Aubrey said that Amelia said that Andrea said that Meghan was sleeping with Nick, not Noah, and Noah was actually sleeping with Mark."

Blaine raises an eyebrow at the two teenage girls who're sitting on the floor of the Lopez living room, phones in hand as they talked.

"God, I hate the Three A's," the older one drones, her thick Queens accent permeating her words. Her r's all about disappeared and her o's sounded like auw.

"I know, right?" The younger one didn't have it as bad but Blaine still has to focus to understand them both. "So Carly got involved — and you know how that ends — and she's supposedly pregnant with Tommy's kid, even though we all know that means she was cheating on Chad with Tommy, but the events don't line up so the possibility that it's actually Trent's kid is more likely, which means Amelia and Andrea will be crying for days because they have that weird threesome relationship or whatever."

The older one pauses her thumbs over her phone. "Nat, I thought it as Aubrey and Amelia."

She shrugs. "I know Amelia was one of them. Maybe it was Alexa."

"Natalia! Can you come here please?" Santana's voice floats out from the kitchen in the small house.

The girl huffs a sigh and jumps up from her sitting position on the floor.

Blaine watches the older girl — Astrid was her name, though it translated into 'Star' and so everyone called her that after she asked — and tilts his head to the side in thought.

"You keep up wit' that?" Star suddenly asks, not looking up from her phone. "Or do you need the SparkNotes version?"

He resists the urge to ask how she knew what that was and instead opts for question number two. "How do you keep with all that?"

"I thought gay guys were, like, boss at that stuff." Her face scrunches up in thought and it's very clear that Brittany is her genetic mother. Blaine has to remind himself that Star is eighteen, not twelve, even if she looks that young.

"Then I must be really old."

Star shrugs with a small laugh. "I do it to keep in her good graces. Thirteen-year-old girls are horrible. I remember all too well."

Brittany calls for dinner.

It's a ritual that's slowly gaining momentum. Every Tuesday, Blaine comes over and lets Santana cook him a five-star meal. Santana says it's like killing two birds with one stone — she makes sure he's out of his apartment at least once a week and that he's eating properly. Blaine says she's turning into his mother.

Star's complaining about school and the production the drama club is doing when Blaine tunes back in.

"Oh God, it's horrible. I mean, it's bad enough that Hummel got Sweeney and she just loves shoving it in everyone's faces, but lately it's like something crawled up her ass and died because all she does is bitch at everyone about awful they're doing. It's really frustrating."

Brittany and Santana share a look and then give Blaine sympathetic glances. Natalia's too busy texting under the table to notice; Star, on the other hand, picks up right away.

"What?"

Santana opens her mouth, pauses, and then chooses her words very carefully. "Don't be … so quick to … judge her," she settles on.

"Yeah," Brittany chimes in and it's amazing how she never seems to have lost the childlike aura about her. "I mean, my boss lives next door to this intern who works for Kurt's assistant and he heard that Kurt's been stressed lately."

Girls and gossip. Blaine will never fully understand it.

Brittany barrels on. "Especially between his show and his relationship. Apparently Jack just went back to Kurt's house after spending a night at a hotel down the street because of a fight they had over Elizabeth and Jack hating each other."

"So yeah." Santana shoots Blaine another look, one he can't identify. "Don't judge her. Elizabeth's home life is hard enough as it is with Kurt's … tendencies."

Blaine felt his eyebrows furrow but Santana discreetly shook her head in the universal sign for _tell you later_.

Star rolls her eyes and stabs a meatball but falls silent.

Later that night, Brittany was off trying to get the house settled down and Blaine and Santana stood in the tiny kitchen, washing and drying dishes together. The dishwasher had broken a few months prior but they hadn't gotten around to fixing it, citing money as the issue.

"Something's troubling you," Blaine murmurs, scrubbing at a particularly irritating spot of sauce on a plate.

"You always knew what I was thinking," Santana notes. She pauses her drying work on the plate in her hands. "Something about Star is confusing me, though."

"What exactly? Her use of vulgar language?"

Santana playfully punches Blaine in the arm and resumes her drying. "No, about Elizabeth flaunting her role. She's not … that's not typical of her. Kurt in sophomore year, maybe. But not Elizabeth. She's too … sweet and good-natured for that. She was raised better than that. Britt's her genetic mother. We've watched her grow up from this side of Roosevelt Island."

"Do you think it's something to do with Kurt?" Blaine asks, hoping that he doesn't sound too curious.

"Maybe." If Santana suspects that Blaine's trying squeeze information out of her, she doesn't say anything.

"San?" Brittany asks, poking her head into the kitchen.

"Yeah?" Santana stacks another plate in the cupboard right above her head.

"Where does Miss Terramino live again?"

"Eighty-fourth street. Does Lord Tubbington need her help?"

"He keeps eating his paw. Maybe. I'd rather get it checked out." Brittany smiles at Blaine. "It's good to see you regularly again. You were always so obsessed with Kurt in high school." She takes a step and kisses Santana on the temple. "I'm going up to bed. See you, Blaine."

The pair work in silence for a few moments until Blaine can hear Brittany in her bedroom right above them. "I could've sworn Lord Tubbington—"

Santana clamped a mouth over Blaine's mouth. "Say that word and we kick you out. Lord Tubbington is a very special cat who has inherited immortality from his magical mother."

"Isn't he like thirty-eight then?"

"Forty-two."

Blaine hands the last plate to Santana and kisses her on the same temple as Brittany did. "I think I'm going to go back home and not attempt to understand how your family works. I can let myself out. Thanks for taking me in, San. I don't … I don't deserve it, especially after everything that happened and me pushing you away."

He turns to leave when Santana conspicuously coughs and sets down the lasagna dish. "Blaine."

"What?" he asks, looking back at her.

She gathers him up in a hug and squeezes tight. "I went through a lot of shit defending you. A lot of people stopped talking to me, especially Kurt." The next part she whispers in his ear. "You and I, we're not so different. You'll always be a brother to me, yeah?"

Blaine nods into her shoulder.

"Now get going," Santana says, pushing Blaine away and sniffing and pressing the back of her hand into her eye. "I have work in the morning and you have to continue being on sabbatical even though I know you're writing new music."

—

Elizabeth storms out of the elevator, her bag, clothes, and body drenched in rainwater.

"That is it!" she shouts, not caring if anyone else hears.

Kurt does. He gets off the couch in the living room, his mouth gaping at the sight of his daughter.

"Wha—"

She explodes on him. "You said you were going to pick me up today. Three o'clock rolls around; okay, fine, maybe he's running late from his coffee run, I can handle this. Three-thirty? His phone's not on. It probably died. Dad does have that tendency to not notice those things. Four-thirty and he hasn't answered his phone or showed up or even told Jackie to call me to call someone else for a ride home? Now that's pretty shifty.

"So I call Jack. He's in Brooklyn and can't get me because he's spending the night at his mom's house. I call the house. Nobody answers. I call you again and nobody answers. All my friends are either busy or don't answer, so I'm forced to walk home. Which wouldn't be so bad if the skies hadn't opened up on me and decided than ten blocks away from home is a fabulous place to start raining on me. And it's not like I can run because I haven't been cleared for that, yet. So I'm forced to walk with a throbbing back and hip in the pouring rain for ten blocks. Everything in my bag is ruined."

Kurt just gapes in response, horror and guilt washing across his face. He feels like he's been punched in the gut.

"I completely forgot—"

"That's just it!" Elizabeth lets out a hysterical sob. It's clear to Kurt now based on her red eyes that she's been crying. "You forgot! You keep doing that! I can't go on the trip to the museum in Albany for Art because you forgot to sign the permission slip last week, I had to remind you several times of the mandatory parent-teacher conferences parents of seniors have to go to, and now today! Three strikes, Dad! What is going on with you?"

He sighs in defeat. "Go get changed. I'll lay out your stuff and see what I can salvage. I'm sorry."

Elizabeth stalks up the stairs without another word.

Kurt grabs her bag and takes it to the kitchen, laying out the books and notebooks and papers out on the kitchen island and counter. He turns up the heat in the room and hopes it works.

When he returns to the living room, Elizabeth is there on his vacated spot in a pair of faded grey sweatpants and a long sleeve white shirt. Around her shoulders is the blanket Kurt had just been using. New York has finally been hit hard by the cold of winter.

"I'm sorry."

"You keep saying that but it obviously doesn't mean anything to you anymore."

"Elizabeth—"

"Jack has screwed everything up, you know that?" Her eyes are stormy and she trains them on her father. "I know who he looks like. I'm not totally ignorant. I learned who he was a couple of years ago. Brittany mentioned him and then couldn't not explain to me when Santana started choking on air."

Kurt sucks in a breath, takes the seat next to Elizabeth. Instantly, she curls in on him and he wraps his arms around her in a strong embrace.

"You ran into him, didn't you? You've been acting a lot like when he comes up in conversation," she says, her voice softer now.

"How so?" he asks, fixing a bump in the bun on the top of her head.

She burrows deeper into his arms like she used to when she was little. "You're kind of distant and don't remember a lot of stuff and in another world completely."

"It … shook me a little."

"A lot."

"Okay, Miss Smarty Pants," he teases, squeezing her tight for a brief moment. "It shook me a lot."

"I'm sorry for flipping out on you," she whispers. "I was just so wet and under a lot of pain and thoroughly annoyed. Carwell gave me a B on my first paper for English even though I should get an A according to the rubric. I'm switching to Creative Writing next week."

Kurt smiles a little. "Thanks for telling me. And apology accepted, though I am going to promise you that I will stop letting this affect me so much."

"Just go talk to Aunt Rachel," Elizabeth suggests, looking up at her dad. "That usually helps you and you haven't seen her in a while."

"I'll go talk to her this weekend," Kurt agrees. "Cider? There's still some left in the fridge that I'm sure we can heat up."

"Yeah," Elizabeth breathes, standing up with her dad, still tucked under his arm and the large, warm afghan as they made their way into the kitchen.


End file.
